Nameless
by LuvEwan
Summary: Qui-Gon would like to remain Obi-Wan's Master a little longer.


**Nameless**

Written by: LuvEwan

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Be sure to check out the Obi-centric story I'm co-writing with my good friend, Perky McSkittles, under the pen name "LuvEwan and Perky McSkittles".

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_It's at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull._ ~Brian W. Aldiss

--

The moon's arrival had done nothing for the heat. The air was quicker, but empty, so that when he breathed deeply he felt stifled, his lungs still waiting for relief. He envied the insects their mad energy, for they could cut a half-drunk path with all the vigor he himself could not locate. He listened to their humming; the sound so much greater than their tiny, liquid bodies, and wondered if they were poison. But as the moments wilted, and they did not seek his flesh, he slowly released his interest in them.

His eyes shifted to the sky, its fullness muted by the transparent, cream-colored linen of the sleep tent. The flaps occasionally rustled in the raw wind, allowing the strong scent of dirt and sand to hasten inside. However unsavory the aroma, Qui-Gon preferred it to the mixture of perspiration and greasy medical lotion that was slowly prevailing in the cramped, makeshift quarters. He watched the darkness, the stars far-flung from one another, and felt that he must be like an insect to the sky, small and nameless and very distant.

Sometimes it seemed that was what he was, a speck in foreign planes, voice and mind easily swallowed. Qui-Gon wanted to think that it was the Force that compacted him, pushed in on him in every direction until he was humbly in a corner, but he could not be sure. As he lived more days, he thought often of his youth, when he was swelled by the light of the future and its possibilities. Now he thought it funny that as he grew, and his experiences increased, he was shrinking, close to disappearing.

He had always been connected to the Force, able to draw from its unending power and bolster himself with it. He knew that the rhythm and cadence he possessed within the Force was unique; whether or not his peers agreed with his methods, he had never been challenged on the intensity of his attunement. But perhaps that had robbed him of something, made him too comfortable, nestled in the warm groove of his reputation, like a creature that refuses to leave its sturdy nest.

Qui-Gon softly turned from his side onto his back, and wiped a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. It was the oppressive, blistering warmth, it was this place that was loosening his thoughts and miring him in cognizance. During this mission, his mind had wandered to questions he did not want to ask himself, topics customarily banished from his internal dialogue. He felt old and squeezed out, like a bug under the sun with its wings shriveling and belly hollow.

It didn't help that the constant heat had put him at odds with his Padawan. He and Obi-Wan had both lost some length to their fuses, which were sparked by the temperature and desolation. They had spent the day overseeing talks on Jalkj. There were so many representatives from the different cities and smaller villages compounded into one area of sparse architecture that the entire event was staged outdoors. The Jalkj natives, a reptilian race with maroon, scaled skin who favored communing with nature, were immune to the extremely arid weather. As the lone two humans, the Jedi suffered the heat in silence, determined to continue with their tasks. By the end of the proceedings, Qui-Gon had been too weary and with too much of a headache to explain their discomfort and accepted the meager offering of a tent. Wordlessly the two Jedi had assembled their shelter, largely due to the fact that anything one of them said had bristled the other for most of the day. Obi-Wan remained dutiful to his Master, in that he did what he was told without argument. Indeed, his apprentice was deeply obedient in the face of their antagonism: he retired when the sun had scarcely sunk below the horizon, as if he sensed his Master's desire for solitude and silence.

Qui-Gon looked at him from across the tent, frowning. Obi-Wan was facing him, eyes closed, one arm stretched out and cushioning his head, the other drawn close to his body. He wore only his tunic pants, the rest of his skin shining from the thick, odorous lotion used to protect against the scorch of the sun. He thought that his young counterpart deserved the rest more than he did. Qui-Gon couldn't help but notice that Obi-Wan had taken lead multiple times in the course of the deliberation, talking firmly but softly to the representatives, sharing his ideas and concerns, while maintaining his usual reserve. Thinking back, Qui-Gon couldn't recall a moment when Obi-Wan had floundered, or turned to his mentor for aid.

He felt a thick stirring in his stomach, and wished he could go to sleep. In that way, Qui-Gon had always envied his apprentice. The gap stretched three decades long between them seemed to close in the face of danger, but in the simple moments, like this one, Qui-Gon was acutely aware of his age. He wasn't sure if Obi-Wan had tossed once before slipping into slumber, while Qui-Gon lay, aching and weary, and eyes wired open these long hours.

Perhaps it was his mind torturing his body with such wakefulness. He found he could not drift from thoughts. As soon as his eyes closed, the deluge appeared in the distance and came rushing to him. He pondered the miniscule, the buried, the repressed and overwrought. Images strewn across his periphery as if they had escaped another brain, they were so unfamiliar to him. And Qui-Gon didn't attempt to make sense of them; when he did, a strange prickle moved through his veins, and he quickly abandoned the effort.

A single, clear, plaintive cry pierced the black canopy, unhindered by clouds, and he could feel it as viscerally as if it were a bolt moving through his chest. An animal, a night dweller, was moaning somewhere in the void, claws poised in the dirt, hungry or triumphant. Qui-Gon lay still, and listened. He heard the skittering of the creature as it fled. Then he sat upright, ignoring the sound of his bones' upset, and crawled out of the tent.

It was nearly an eclipse on Jalkj, the blinding brilliance of the day balanced by great pools of shadow at midnight. The sand and dirt was warm between his toes as he stood, arms crossed, damp hair pulled away from his face. He sensed the sleeping minds around him; somehow, it made it even more irksome, to know that he was alone and isolated in his consciousness.

And he was irked even further, realizing that such ridiculous, _silly_ emotions were plaguing him—in the middle of a mission, for Force's sake. It wasn't as if he had never been on his own before. When he thought about it, his life had been one of singular duty and independence, only briefly and rarely interrupted by an apprentice. And however long the student stayed, each of them had to leave, step out into the universe as a Knight. He wondered…he wondered if Padawans thought of their Masters as often and as fondly as their Masters did them. Or if he was merely another stage in their young lives, to be accomplished and then moved on from. Would the impressions he left on his pupils be worn away by their new adventures and trials, by their own future apprentices? Qui-Gon had always considered the greatest legacy of a Jedi to be the students one left behind when joining with the Force—

Hells, why was he thinking this? He shook his head, rubbing his eyes and looking down at the dark ground. Of all the things to haunt himself with, death was the most foolish. He knew he was going to die, that everybody died, that as a Jedi his death was a daily possibility, the thick lump in his throat before launching into battle. Now that he was older, dying was fleshing out in his head, gaining form and strength, become more substantial than a faint, untouched scenario. He didn't want immortality, but he couldn't image leaving his life as it was currently.

But that forced him to consider if his life held enough worth to preserve. What did he do that no other Jedi, no other being, couldn't do? He had the Force, that much was true, but knowing the Force was like becoming a single grain in a huge, limitless dune. He didn't understand it, but lately he felt the vividness of his own life dimming, stealing more glances at Obi-Wan and hurting from what he glimpsed.

Qui-Gon sank to the dirt, naturally assuming a meditative position, and closed his eyes.

-

He opened them, and the night was there to greet him, like the guest who lingers too long after a dull party. He felt fresh sweat clinging in layers to his back, and he got to his feet, heading back to the tent. He hoped he could sleep now, at least for a few hours.

Another cry shredded the silence, but it was less controlled, strangled even. He blinked, chest and gut twisting, and he ran the rest of the short distance to his sleep quarters.

Qui-Gon thrust open the tent flap. Obi-Wan was leaning forward on one arm, coughing into his fist. His face was flushed a violent, splotchy scarlet.

Immediately Qui-Gon went to the pitcher of water at the edge of the tent's opening. The Jaljks were not well versed in human reaction to their planet's extreme weather, and were quite pleased by their idea to place a rapid cooling disk under the Jedi's overnight water supply (Obi-Wan had grumbled that it would have been an even better idea to provide them indoor lodging). It was a kind enough gesture, however, which Obi-Wan had obviously not taken advantage of.

He poured a cupful, then returned to Obi-Wan's side. "Here," he said loudly, to be heard over the din of the fit, pressing his hand on the bare shoulder so his Padawan would know he was there.

Obi-Wan reached blindly for the cup, and drank down its contents in several breathless gulps.

Qui-Gon watched him with concern, reaching out once to rest his hand on the side of the face. It was warm, but not overly so. "Are you alright?" he asked, when Obi-Wan had settled, his coughs dwindling to sporadic hitches.

Obi-Wan nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, Master."

To be safe, Qui-Gon refilled the cup, and handed it back to Obi-Wan. "Drink that, too." He instructed with a slight edge of rebuke. "You know not to let yourself get dehydrated in this sort of atmosphere, Padawan."

Obi-Wan obeyed, then set the empty container aside. Qui-Gon couldn't be sure if the remaining flourish of color on the pale skin was the result of thirst and heat, or chagrin. He reached into his rucksack and produced a tan square of cloth.

Obi-Wan took it and rubbed the sweat from his face and neck. Then he stared down at the saturated fabric in his hands. "I apologize, Master."

Qui-Gon sighed, falling slowly onto his back and shutting his eyes. "That's alright, Obi-Wan."

"No, I mean, I apologize for my behavior yesterday. I allowed the heat to distract me from my senses. I was, well, rude."

Qui-Gon rolled onto his side and looked at his apprentice. "We both were. I suspect that's why you didn't wait to have evening meal and water with me. It happens, unfortunately," he smiled, "I'll forgive you if you forgive me."

Obi-Wan settled on his elbows, smirking. "I don't know. You were inordinately vicious, Master. I would need a Huttese translator just to understand half of what you said to me. And that's assuming I want to know what you said."

Qui-Gon pondered this for a few minutes. "You don't want to know," he decided, "It would tarnish your innocence."

Obi-Wan laughed. "And that is what I value above all else."

Qui-Gon enjoyed the quiet that fell between them, because it did not work as a barrier between anger and productivity. Rather, it was the comfortable state of not needing to say a word, because their mental connection was enough; it spoke for them both. He could feel Obi-Wan's renewed contentment, the comfort and ease he was experiencing, despite the stifling warmth of the night. And beneath that, Qui-Gon was engrossed, awash in the gentle Light that emanated from his Padawan.

"Master?"

He rapidly blinked the inexplicable moisture from his eyes and cleared his throat. "Yes, Obi-Wan?" he answered softly.

"Do you think, considering what tomorrow is, the Jaljk representatives might be persuaded to move their talks somewhere less…miserable?"

Qui-Gon responded with a sober chuckle, detecting the wryness in the young voice. "But then what excuse would we have to heap torment and insults on one another?"

"Good point."

Qui-Gon smiled and allowed his lids to drift down once more.

"Master?"

"Yes, Obi-Wan?"

A pause. "I won't be receiving another rock tomorrow, will I?"

The older man could clearly picture the mischievous curl of his young protege's lips. He fought to control his own fledgling smirk. "Of course not. As you grow older, you require more practical gifts from your instructor."

"Like what?"

Qui-Gon stretched, turning on his side and resting his head on folded hands. "A Huttese translator."

"Oh. Then I'd prefer to stay twenty-four, if you don't mind."

Qui-Gon felt the sharp pang in his chest. He lived in it for a moment, the anguish far more bitter than sweet, and then breathed it out. "I wouldn't mind, Obi-Wan," he murmured, knowing his voice was too low to be heard.

-

He woke, and could feel the heat soaking him in lethargy, pressing on his temples, telling him to sleep again. But he opened his eyes anyway. A pale light was streaming across the tent, frail and recently birthed from the grayness. Qui-Gon carefully sat up, the bottom of the tent peeling free of his sweaty body.

Obi-Wan was still asleep beside him. The spikes of his hair had been tamed by perspiration, flattened to his skull and curling dry at his neck. The slender Padawan braid trailed from his hair into a pool of auburn and beads.

Qui-Gon extended his hand, and ran his finger down the cool, smooth surface of one of the markers, a red one. It was the last of the beads, holding together the braid, the short tail splaying out from its end. He wished he could slide it off, and keep it cradled in his palm; keep the loneliness, the sense of being an unnamed bit of dust, at bay. It was sweltering as Sith's Fury out here, and neither of them smelled very...fragrant, but he could think of nothing that could rival the perfection of the morning.

He wiped at his eyes, then moved to rouse Obi-Wan, feeling a bone-deep reluctance he refused to examine.

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End file.
